


Be Careful What You Sith For

by 11paruline44



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Semi-Seriously, Gen, Get Rekt Palpatine 2020, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Obi-wan Kenobi is Done, ROTS Fix-It, Sith magic, That's Not How The Force Works, but with a good dose of third-person omniscient snarky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25901920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/11paruline44/pseuds/11paruline44
Summary: Darth Sidious just wanted a sneak peak at his own death—so he could avoid it, of course. But, one backfiring Sith ritual later, it's not just him who got a look ahead at their future demise—it's the wholegalaxy, all at once.Ever since the words fortelling the cause of one's death had appeared on everyone's arms, the galaxy plunged into chaos. But can the Jedi make sense of the madness fast enough to avoid their tragic fate?
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 251
Kudos: 451





	1. In which a Sith Lord makes a grave mistake

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this little plot bunny for so long, so I finally gave in and put it to paper (screen? Google Doc?... idk man). If any of you follow my other current Star Wars WIP, _A Million Wasted Chances_ , I'm still working on it, don't worry! I ended up finding that writing this fun little semi-crack piece on the side helped me get the creative juices flowing again. Plus, I got to try third-person omniscient snarky for the first time in a while! I have more written already, but I feel that this story lends itself better to shorter installments, so you'll just have to wait until next week for more :)
> 
> Time frame is somewhere around the close of Season 4 / start of Season 5 of the Clone Wars (I'm sorry y'all, Umbara still happened... but I draw the line at letting Satine die). Maul at this point has been freed by Savage Oppress and had his first brush with Obi-Wan, but he hasn't been out there long enough to cause too much damage. (However, we know that can't stay true for long—as Ahsoka put it, causing chaos is what Maul's good at.)

Darth Sidious, also known as Sheev Palpatine, Supreme Chancellor of the Republic and, if he was to have his way, soon-to-be Emperor of his own Galactic Empire, stood in front of a cauldron. Electric blue flames rose up from its rim, pouring over the sides, until they dissolved into an eerie mist that disappeared into the darkness. Around Sidious’s black-cloaked form, the Sith planet Malachor churned with the Dark Side, feeding into the concoction’s vile power. The perfect picture of Sith-style, galaxy-ruling, genocide-launching evil. 

Never let it be said the Sith didn’t have a flair for the dramatic. 

In fact, some might even argue that the success of a Sith ritual hinges on the dark practitioner’s adherence to a suitably villainous aesthetic—and if this is indeed the case, then Sidious was doing everything in his power to make sure his dark magics succeeded. 

(Presently, as if deciding the picture wasn’t Sith-y enough, he let out a storm of Sith lightning from his hands, electrifying the mixture in the cauldron and cackling all the while.)

Yes, Sidious was indeed the perfect model of a Sith Lord. He had his plans perfected down to the minutest detail, and contingencies upon contingencies layered on top of these plans, until it was a wonder the man was even able to keep track of it all. But the nature of such a slavish devotion to power as Sidious possessed came with a weakness: insatiability. As the maxim goes, the more one acquires power, the more one craves power—and the more one fears losing this power. Sidious was not immune to this fear. No, despite the appearance he presented, despite his great strength, he was on this wise perhaps the most fearful individual in the galaxy.

Which leads us to his present occupation. A Sith ritual that, according to the records Sidious stole from his poor, dear, disposed-of Sith Master, was capable of revealing future demise. The paranoid old Sith Lord was willing to overlook the fact that the spell failed to specify exactly _whose_ future demise would be revealed, feeling he’d be able to sufficiently bend the ritual to his will enough to reveal his own. 

This oversight would prove to be his undoing.

The potion in the cauldron began to grow, spilling out of its confinement and out into the darkness. Sidious, of course, arrogantly took this as a good sign, and punctuated the sight with a few more cackles—but then the sickly blue light grew, and grew, and _grew,_ and began to connect to the very Force frequency of Malachor itself. Sidious’s pleasure quickly morphed into fear, and he covered his eyes just in time for the concoction to explode, releasing a shockwave through the Force that rippled through the planet before making its way through the whole galaxy. 

You see, the spell failed to specify _whose_ demise it meant—because in fact, it revealed the demise of _everyone._ All throughout the galaxy, as the spell swept through, taking effect, words began appearing onto the forearms of every creature, burning with the heat of blue flame until simply their black, charred echo remained. On some appeared diseases, some accidents, some natural disasters. But on others—far too many—there appeared names. Killers.

At first, of course, the galaxy had not the faintest notion of what to do about the words. After all, without any background knowledge, the words appeared random, without rhyme or reason—

—but then, as occurs on any given day in the universe, people began to die. And the Holonet was quick to piece together that every word on the deceased’s forearms matched the exact manner of their deaths.

Word spread like wildfire, from planet to planet, from Separatists to the armies of the Republic, from the Senate to the Jedi Temple. And soon, nearly every being in the galaxy knew about the future manner of their own death.

Not Sidious, however. At least, not yet. Sidious never got to be the first to know the information he sought because he had the unfortunate indignity of being knocked unconscious by his own spell. 

When he arose two days later, he returned to a galaxy in chaos.

***

Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Ahsoka Tano stood around a holotable aboard their Star Cruiser, staring in silent shock at the news.

Usually, the intrepid trio of Jedi did not really read or watch the news, since the nature of their job on the front lines of the war typically meant they _were_ the news. But today, the Jedi Council had simply commed to tell them to turn on the news, _now._

The three stood aghast at what they found.

Anakin was the first to move, pulling up his left sleeve in haste to stare at the words he’d found there that morning, as if in need of tangible confirmation that they were real. _Darth Sidious._

Having never heard of a Sith Lord by that name, Anakin found it difficult to truly register the implications of such a demise. While he didn’t exactly desire to die, he found it less difficult to accept a death in combat with a Sith Lord than he might have expected. After all, such was his life leading troops in battle against a Sith-led army. However, he realized, frowning, it did not bode well that he had never heard of this Sith. That would possibly be an indication that the Jedi’s conflict against the Sith would last beyond the current war.

Lifting his head, Anakin stared at the Jedi Master to his left, who was frowning at the holo and stroking his beard in concentration, having come to a similar conclusion. 

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin broke the silence. “What did—” He gulped. “What did yours say?”

Ahsoka, ever the curious padawan, stared likewise at Obi-Wan, who surveyed the two questioning pairs of eyes fixed upon him and sighed. “I’m not certain that’s wise for you to know.”

“But maybe if we knew, we could change it,” Ahsoka pointed out—to which Anakin added, sensing the momentum in his favor, “Exactly.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, about to provide a signature counter-argument, when his commlink began to beep, indicating another transmission from the Council. Opening the holo, the three were greeted by the faces of Grandmasters Yoda and Mace Windu.

“Back to the Temple, you must come at once,” Yoda announced, as gravely as is possible with such curious patterns of syntax as he possessed. 

Mace Windu watched the three, his usual scowl etched more deeply into his features. “Many of the words we’ve discovered so far have been—most disturbing. It’s imperative we discuss them in person.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “Would it not be safer to keep them to ourselves, as to avoid making such a potential future worse?”

Yoda shook his head. “Beyond that, the situation is. Act now, we must.”

Nodding in assent, Obi-Wan prepared to close the transmission. “Very well, then,” he replied, and the holo flickered out of existence. 

For a moment, there was silence, and Obi-Wan turned to find Anakin and Ahsoka’s eyes still firmly fixed on his. 

“See?” Anakin prompted, mature as ever. 

Heaving yet another sigh, Obi-Wan rolled up his sleeve and displayed the words to the others. _Darth Vader._

Anakin glared at the words. When he saw his own killer, he was almost indifferent, but this time, he was growing angry. _Kriffing Sith,_ he thought. _Who do they think they are? No one gets to kill my Master but me._

The author here pauses the story to note the sheer, unintentional irony of such a statement.

Still curious, Ahsoka interrupted the tension in the room by elbowing Anakin and fixing him with a pointed _look._ “Hey, I still haven’t seen yours, Skyguy.”

“Oh, right,” Anakin said, realizing that it was only fair he show his words, and rolled up his sleeve. 

Glancing at the name displayed on Anakin’s arm, Obi-Wan’s concern deepened. The Temple was indeed right—such a proliferation of as-yet unknown Sith was a threat in need of being addressed. “Ahsoka?” he asked, curious for the first time.

“Oh,” she laughed, exposing her arm. “I’m better off than both of you.” 

“Yeah, Snips just gets to die of old age. How glamorous,” Anakin jutted in, quick to keep the situation light for his padawan’s sake.

“Hey, at least I won’t lose to a Sith, unlike you guys.”

Obi-Wan turned and began walking back to his troops in order to prepare his departure, the sound of Anakin and Ahsoka’s bickering fading into the background.

He had an uncanny feeling this would be a very long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I'm well aware we have no idea what happens to Ahsoka. I'd like to be an optimist here, so I've decided that for my fic's purposes, until proved otherwise, Ahsoka gets to live out her life in full.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr at thesernotthedroidsurlooking4!


	2. In which some light pondering of destiny occurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More people discover and ponder their apparent doom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at me, I actually was ready in time to post a week later?? (I mean, to be fair, I finished the lion’s share of chapter 2 even before I posted chapter 1.) Thank you guys for your comments—some of your ideas helped me remember some things and get all this coming chaos sorted (which is no easy task, mind you). So, without further ado... have at this mess.

The Force at the Jedi Temple rang heavy with mounting fear spreading across the ranks.

The Council had moved on quickly from questioning the strange manner of appearance of the death-words, deciding it was infinitely more urgent to address their contents and the implied impact they had on the future of the Order. Soon, the Council began requesting every knight, master, padawan, and youngling’s manner of future death be reported to them. Two categories of words began quickly emerging as the most prevalent, each perhaps equally disturbing. The most common category was that of the names of clones—and, curiously, not their chosen names, but their CC- and CT- numbers, long dropped by the majority of the Jedi and clones alike. The worst part, to many of the Jedi, was that they recognized these numbers—they were the designations of clones that were part of their own battalions, ones they knew and trusted. How could their own commanders betray them? Especially since the clones in question seemed the most devastated of all by the news?

The second, sinister category consisted of a single name: Darth Vader. The creche masters were horrified to discover it appeared with most frequency among the younglings, although many older Jedi found it upon their forearms as well. How could one Sith kill so many? 

Taken altogether, however, the data showed one single, chilling fact for certain: every Jedi was destined to die a violent death, except for two, seemingly random beings among their number: Grandmaster Yoda and Padawan Ahsoka Tano. The Masters of the Council could not dispute the mounting evidence: the Jedi Order was destined for doom.

None could understand exactly how that was to be. Why would the clones betray them, and who were these new Sith—Darth Vader, who would slay nearly the entire young generation of Jedi, and Darth Sidious, who would be responsible for the deaths of several Council members?

The Council argued for nearly the entire remainder of the day, searching for any shred of information that might lead them to the Sith, without luck. However, as the full extent of the horrible, Sith-catalyzed future began to sink in, one Jedi among their number began to ponder something said to him at the very beginning of the war. He’d originally discounted the information, since it was Count Dooku it came from, after all, but it was starting to seem more and more plausible. 

As Count Dooku had taunted Obi-Wan Kenobi, there may very well have been a Sith located at the heart of the Senate, pulling the strings of the war the whole time.

Though he still kept his suspicions to himself, Obi-Wan left the meeting with growing doubts and a desire to find out the whole truth.

***

Meanwhile, Anakin Skywalker took the distraction of the Jedi Council meeting in order to finally get away to meet with his wife. 

The more he pondered the mysterious Sith Lords destined to kill him and his Master, the more antsy he got. After all, if there was anyone Anakin despised most, it would be those who dared mess with those he considered his family. As the day went by, he wanted—no, _needed_ to know what was written on Padmé’s arm. She had to be safe, she _had_ to be. Anakin urged his speeder to neck-breaking speeds all the way to her apartment.

His nervousness lasted right up until he greeted his wife and requested that he see what was on her arm. 

_Darth Sidious,_ he read. 

From there, his nervousness promptly morphed into anger.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, clenching his mechanical fist so hard sparks flew. “How dare he!”

Padmé frowned, reaching out and placing her arm on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. “Ani, do you know who that is?”

“No,” he admitted, allowing Padmé to corral him to sit on one of her artfully-placed couches. “But that’s a Sith name, Padmé. A Sith who is apparently destined to destroy our family!” He shoved back the fabric on his sleeve, showing her the very same name on his own arm. 

Padmé’s pulse jumped, and she pursed her lips. “That’s not good.”

“No, it isn’t,” Anakin growled. “And there’s more Sith out there, too. Some Sith Lord named Darth Vader is supposed to kill Obi-Wan, and from what he’s told me, a good portion of the Temple, too!” Rising abruptly, he began to pace. “I need to find those Sith. I need to find them, and I need to _kill_ them!”

“I’m sure the galaxy would benefit if they were stopped,” Padmé mused, attempting to ignore her uneasiness at watching her husband’s bloodthirsty fury grow. “Darth Vader—I’ve heard that name on the Holonet. It appears it isn’t just Jedi he’s supposed to kill.” Padmé called up her holo, beckoning Anakin to come and take a look. “But besides the Sith, there are lots of planets that have been finding horrible news. Look—Lasan surveys have recorded nearly a 87% rate of violent future death, and Ryloth has a very high rate as well. There are reports from Kashyyyk that many of the Wookies will die in mining accidents, despite the fact that few Wookies are employed in that sector, and there have even been rumors coming from Separatist space that nearly all the Geonosians are supposed to die of poison gas.” Padmé bit her lip and glanced towards Anakin, who was staring at the holo with a deep scowl on his face. “The worst news, however, is from Alderaan. Nearly 90% of the population, especially children, have one name on their wrist: Wilhuff Tarkin.”

“Wait a second,” Anakin interrupted. “I know that guy. He wouldn’t—how—” Shell-shocked, he sank back down on the couch next to Padmé. “How do you even kill the population of an entire planet?”

“I don’t know,” Padmé murmured. “I can’t imagine how Bail’s feeling.”

For a moment, the couple sat in silence, Padmé contemplating the sheer horror of what was to befall the galaxy, Anakin mulling over his growing rage.

“It’s the Sith. It has to be,” Anakin said suddenly, rising to his feet. 

Padmé caught his sleeve, concern mounting. “Ani—”

“I need to go,” he snapped, tugging back his sleeve. Padmé watched as he stalked off, hoping he wouldn’t do anything rash.

Padmé always gave her husband perhaps more credit than he deserved.

With a sigh, Padmé turned back to her datapad, overflowing with new messages. The whole galaxy was in an uproar, and the Chancellor was somehow nowhere to be found. It was going to be a long week. 

But, she’d do whatever it took to restore the galaxy to peace, and to avert whatever awful future the words foretold. Taking a deep breath, she started back in on her work.

***

Rex and Cody were just about to go to the mess hall, deciding it was time for a hard-earned break, when Rex’s commlink beeped. Ever the dependable soldier, Rex promptly picked it up. (Honestly, Rex is too good for this galaxy.)

“Yes?”

“Rex, how are the boys holding up?” his General’s voice filtered through.

Rex and Cody exchanged glances.

“Uh… permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Permission granted,” came the response.

“Yeah… it’s not going too great,” Rex sighed. “Everyone’s pretty upset, especially with the reports that are coming in from some of the other battalions. Sir…” Rex pressed his lips together, aware of how poorly Anakin often took bad news. “Bly commed Cody soon after you left. He found his CC- number on General Secura’s wrist and, well, he’s taking it pretty hard. There are many other battalions who’ve said similar things, that their generals were supposed to be killed by one of them, and even vice versa.”

“I heard,” Anakin’s voice responded, hard and serious. “Obi-Wan told me.”

Rex shook his head. “I can’t understand how any of it can possibly be true, and neither can the rest of us.”

“Fair enough, Rex,” came the reply. 

There was a moment’s pause, before Anakin continued. “I hate to do this to you, Rex, but the words on everyone’s arms are clues. I think it’s all part of a larger Sith plot. If you find anything of note in the 501st, can you let me know?”

Rex sucked in a breath, glancing at Cody. He’d dread such a task, especially with the legion in such an uproar, and Cody grimaced, feeling the same. However, the General had a good point. They could use any information they could get.

“Sir, yes, sir,” he replied.

“Thank you, Rex,” Anakin said, and the transmission ended.

Rex stared out at the army comprised of his brothers. It was time to get cracking.

About an hour later, Obi-Wan commed Cody, requesting he do the same thing with the 212th. Soon, the air of panic pervading both legions quieted to a simmer, the clones instead wondering just what would be discovered of the supposed Sith plot their Generals feared. In a way, it was almost comforting—at least they now had something to do, something to puzzle out. It was better than letting themselves think too hard over the manner of their own deaths.

***

In his office in Serenno, Count Dooku sat on the floor, meditating.

Or, at least, attempting to meditate. Even though he hadn’t had a moment’s peace all day—meaning he _desperately_ wanted this small time to re-center himself—he simply couldn’t stop thinking about the words. 

He had a fairly good guess as to their origin, as they gave off a faint aura of the Dark Side of the Force that often betrayed the presence of Sith magic. This only made everything worse, in his mind, because now the source was reliable. He was going to be defeated by the Jedi Knight he respected the _least—_ Anakin Skywalker. Dooku’s brow creased. At least Grievous was to be felled by Kenobi, a worthy opponent, but _Skywalker?_ No matter how many times Dooku saw him throughout the war, his impression of the man never changed—he had manners no better than a younglings’, and his control and patience were even worse. That a Jedi Dooku considered so _undisciplined_ was apparently to be his doom was an embarrassment he could not abide.

To make matters worse, the other figureheads of the Separatist Alliance had not quit pestering him the whole day long, all of them terrified of the same person, apparently fated to be their demise: Darth Vader. A Sith Dooku had never heard of. To Dooku, this _Vader_ was a concept perhaps even less abidable than the idea of being killed by _Skywalker,_ of all people—because he was an unknown factor, and therefore something Dooku could not control, could not account for. And, as readers might know, Count Dooku was nothing if not a control freak.

The longer Dooku meditated, the angrier he became—a cold, _harnessed_ anger, thank you very much, he was no savage (like _Skywalker_ ). There was only one way a Sith should come about in the galaxy, he reasoned—through either himself, or his Master. After all, he adhered to the Rule of Two. None should gain the title _Darth_ except they be the sole apprentice of the sole Sith Master (which he was hoping would be himself, of course). However, he hesitated to believe he’d order any future apprentice of his to kill the Separatist leaders—at least, not anytime soon. They made for quite the good puppets. He was already planning on using them to take over the galaxy. That left only one other option as the likelier explanation: Sidious would replace Dooku, and use his new apprentice, Vader, to kill off the Separatists in the way of his planned Empire.

Dooku was no fool. He would not be played for one. If this was indeed his Master’s plan, he vowed, he must put a stop to it.

Opening his eyes with a glare, Dooku called his comm to him with the Force. Darth Vader was a matter that must be handled more delicately, once his Master returned from–wherever he was, but there was at least something he could do in the meantime: get rid of Anakin Skywalker.

***

In another, dark, faraway corner of the galaxy, Darth Maul stared at the holo he’d stolen from the pilot manning the cargo shipment he had just hijacked. 

He glanced down at his forearm, and then gave a great roar of frustration, the entire ship rattling with the force of his wrath.

“KENOBIIIII!!!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, some of you guessed it, I am firmly in the camp that Padmé did not die of a broken heart. (I mean, seriously? Her? And that’s the most sexist way to kill off a female character _ever_. In childbirth, of a broken heart. _niiiice._ ) Sidious totally drained her of her life-force from afar. So, my fic reflects that. 
> 
> Hope to see y’all next week!


	3. In which the current state of affairs inspire a certain amount of disbelief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin and Obi-Wan continue their investigations, with the help of some friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, folks, this may very well be the last of my weekly updates for this fic, considering my college semester just started. It's been a good run, though, and I'm proud of the small semblance of regularity I _was_ able to accomplish. (I will be trying my darndest to keep it up anyway, though!) And thank you all for reading and commenting—some of you hit the nail right on the head, as you'll see very soon...

Merely one rotation after the news about the death-words first broke over the Holonet, Captain Wilhuff Tarkin was assassinated by an Alderaanian bounty hunter. While the suspect was duly chased down and arrested, of course, few felt very much in the way of sympathy for the deceased. 

However, the incident quickly became a top story throughout the galaxy, for two primary reasons:

Firstly, because Alderaan was a significant system, being a Core world with influential senators and powerful connections. Thus, the uproar and protests on Alderaan, as well as the widespread sympathy and horror for its plight even beyond its borders, were already covered extensively by the Holonet, and—

Secondly, because news swiftly surfaced that Tarkin’s name, despite his untimely death, remained emblazoned on the arms of the Alderaanians—even though the man could no longer kill them, since he was no longer with the living. Reporters were quick to assume, and correctly, that this was an indication that the dark fates foretold by the words could be evaded. Hope spread through the galaxy: whatever the coming horrors were, they might yet not come to pass.

In the Senate, Padmé Amidala, Bail Organa, and other like-minded senators redoubled their efforts for investigation on the worlds most affected. The Jedi Council continued their own investigations into the Sith, as did Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker in particular.

Sheev Palpatine did nothing, even as his carefully-laid plans fell apart all around him, as he was still to remain unconscious for another day. 

***

In a quiet nook in the Jedi Temple, Obi-Wan Kenobi sat, poring over the contents of the third holocron he’d tried so far that day.

Obi-Wan would never say he disliked research, per say, but sometimes, even he had to concede it often grew… frustrating. Take this particular holocron, for instance. While its contents had purported to contain information about the Sith, most of _this_ information was actually about the construction of specific captured Sith lightsabers… and not about the tenets of the order itself, or its practices. 

Just as Obi-Wan’s eyes were glazing over (though he’d never admit it), there was a knock on the door of the room. Quietly and quickly assuming an erect, much more suitable Jedi sitting pose, Obi-Wan called, “Come in.”

The door slid open, and Plo Koon strode into the room, a datapad in hand. “I have the information you asked for, Obi-Wan,” he said, voice deep and grave.

Obi-Wan stood. “You have my gratitude, Master Plo. I can imagine it wasn’t easy to obtain.”

“It took some time for Shaak Ti to process, but we both share your opinion that this information is of utmost importance.” Plo strode forward, handing Obi-Wan the datapad. 

Obi-Wan stared at the chart. Jedi names, the clone numbers on their arms, the name, rank, and battalion of the clones they referred to. He bit his lip, his heart sinking. “It’s as we suspected, Plo. All of these clones are—”

“I know,” Plo nodded. “The same battalions as their Jedi.” There was a heavy pause, before Plo continued, more quietly than before. “It’s true for me, too. My words are the number of one of my own—Captain Jag.”

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose, the names and numbers blurring together as he scrolled. 

“There’s more,” Plo said presently, some reluctance coloring his voice. 

Obi-Wan, ever perceptive, lifted his head to examine him. “What?”

Plo took back the datapad, clicking onto another chart, and returned it to Obi-Wan. “There is a smaller portion of the Jedi with clone numbers outside of their own battalions. However, nearly all of them are from—”

“The 501st,” Obi-Wan murmured, eyes wide as he scrolled through this list. “Plo, are these younglings, too?”

“Unfortunately so,” Plo nodded. 

Obi-Wan shook his head, numb with horror. Anakin’s legion? What— “I can’t even begin to imagine what this means, but it must be nothing good.”

“Indeed,” Plo agreed, and Obi-Wan handed the datapad back to him after copying the information for his own use.

Now, Obi-Wan never claimed to be very good about talking about things Jedi did not very much care to acknowledge the existence of—namely, _feelings_ —but, sensing the edges of Plo Koon’s presence in the Force, he felt such sorrow that he had to say at least _something._

“Plo—I’m sorry to hear about Jag.”

Plo paused on the way out the door, ever stoic in appearance, yet in truth, comforted a bit by Obi-Wan’s empathy.

“I am too.”

The door slid shut, leaving Obi-Wan alone with his own thoughts. He knew there had to be a reason for the clones’ apparent treachery, but whatever it was, it was escaping him. The news about the 501st, however, was new, and was no less baffling, as well as deeply unsettling. Obi-Wan opened the data files on his own pad and scrolled through them once more, scanning for even a hint of some sort of _answer_ for this mess.

It was not quite ten minutes later when, still occupied by this task, Obi-Wan received a holocall. Setting the datapad down with a sigh, Obi-Wan ran through his hair in an exasperated gesture and opened up the call.

When he saw who it was, he quite nearly jumped.

_“Satine.”_

“Hello, Obi-Wan,” the Duchess in question answered.

Now, if the reader isn’t already aware, these two individuals had certain… feelings for each other. Of the decidedly gooey variety. They also, due to their own, stubborn convictions, were determined not to act on these feelings, and not to see one other, for fear of temptation. So, every time they _did_ see each other again—

—well. I’ll spare you the sappy details, beyond that there was some staring. Extended staring. Ah, star-crossed love.

Presently, Obi-Wan broke eye contact, clearing his throat. “Satine. To what do I owe—what is the occasion for—”

Satine sighed. “I didn’t know who else to call,” she admitted. “Mandalore has had its fair share of disturbing future fates, but mine has been among the most… perplexing. I am unfamiliar with the name, and while I attempted to investigate, my ministers were unable to find any matching information.” She fixed Obi-Wan with a resolute stare. “However, I believe a Jedi would be able to help.”

Obi-Wan had begun to have a sneaking suspicion, and it wasn’t good—but when Satine showed him her arm, he gasped. 

“Darth Maul.” Despite his best efforts, fear rose within Obi-Wan. He’d underestimated the former Sith Lord’s grudge. 

Satine frowned. “So you do know the name.”

Obi-Wan lowered his head. “I’m afraid this one is my fault,” he said. “Please, forgive me.”

Satine, well aware of Obi-Wan’s self-deprecating tendencies, folded her arms and gave him a _look_ —though she was also attempting to ignore the dread she felt because of his strong reaction to her apparent killer. “Whatever do you mean?”

Obi-Wan took a deep breath. “Darth Maul was the Sith who killed Master Qui-Gon. I thought I’d dispatched him shortly afterwards, but…” He looked back up at Satine, searching for her reaction to his failures. “Maul survived, somehow, and he is solely fixed on getting revenge on me. I do not know how he would have… found out… but he would have only harmed you to get at me.”

Satine’s gaze softened. “Oh, Obi, that isn’t your fault.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “Yes, it is. I’ve put you in danger.”

Lifting her chin, Satine looked him in the eye. “I am the ruling Duchess of an influential system. There are always those from whom I am in danger. And if we know now that this Maul will attack, we can prevent it.”

Evading her gaze, Obi-Wan stroked his beard. The “we” in that sentence was not lost on him. “I’m not sure it’s that simple, Satine.”

“Well, the information can’t hurt.” Obi-Wan gave her a pained smile at this, despite himself. “And Obi-Wan—I trust you.”

“Let us hope that trust isn’t misplaced,” Obi-Wan replied, and, before Satine could retort, pressed the button to cut off the holocall. Lips quirking into a wry smile, he imagined her indignant reaction. More than he wanted to admit, he would have loved to stay and talk to her—

—but he had work to do. Smile vanishing, Obi-Wan set aside his holocomm and stared at the small stack of holocrons he’d borrowed from the archives.

There were still so many Sith loose in the galaxy. Grimly, Obi-Wan wondered: would he ever live to see peace, once more, in his time?

***

“Rex!”

Captain Rex looked up from the datapad he’d been examining to find Ahsoka striding towards him, her bearing still as perky as ever–even amidst the current situation. (To be fair, it was easy for her to be perky, since she, like him, was predicted to live out her life in full). A corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Commander.”

“Whatcha got there?” Ahsoka asked, nodding to the datapad.

Rex suddenly had a bad feeling about where this was going, and lowered the datapad in a manner that covered its contents. “Just something for the General.”

Like most teenagers, Ahsoka was quite perceptive of when information was being withheld from her—and she would not be deterred. Raising an eyebrow, she prodded, “What kind of something?”

Rex sighed. _Stang,_ sometimes he wished she didn’t outrank him. “General Skywalker asked me to look into the causes of death for the 501st.” Ahoska peered at the datapad, and he reluctantly passed it to her. “I interviewed a couple companies last rotation, but I’ve still got most of the legion to go.”

Ahsoka frowned as she read. Some of the results were as could be expected—droid B1 and B2 numbers, ship crashes—there were a heck lot of ship crashes, actually—Dooku, Maul—but—

“Wait, _Obi-Wan?”_ She snapped her head up to stare at Rex.

Rex gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid so.”

Ahsoka turned back to the datapad, finding the need to double-check what she just saw. “I’d heard something about Jedi having the CT numbers of their clones on their arms,” she murmured, “but Obi-Wan? Killing a 501st clone? What even…”

All of a sudden, she jammed the datapad back in Rex’s hands, looking him in the eye. “I’m coming with you,” she announced.

Rex held back a sigh. He could hardly refuse.

***

Despite Rex’s reservations about someone as young as Ahsoka having to bear the burden of what would happen to her battalion, she took the information they uncovered surprisingly well. That didn’t mean any of it was good. Most of the clones’ future manner of death were still causes to be expected in war, but then, every twenty or so clones, they’d find one with a Jedi’s name—not just Obi-Wan, but Yoda, and many other names Ahsoka recognized, including even Barriss. Rex kept a separate list of these to show the General, his unease growing.

Rex actually found himself really appreciating that he had Ahsoka along. Her care and concern for the clones was evident in every conversation, which made the whole ordeal of rehashing their death-words easier.

Presently, the two came across a small group of clones in the halls.

“Fives, Jesse, Tup,” Ahsoka called. “Can we talk to you for a sec?”

“Certainly, Commander,” Tup answered for them, and the group began subtly straightening their posture.

“At ease,” Rex assured them.

“We hate to ask you this, but we’d like it if you could tell us what you have on your arms,” Ahsoka said.

The three clones stilled, the atmosphere suddenly chilling. Tup and Jesse’s faces were grim, while Fives looked down at his boots.

“The General’s requested it,” Rex added softly. “Any information could help us.”

Jesse glanced at the others, and, sensing their reluctance, spoke up first. “Mine says ‘ship crash,’” he shrugged. “It seems to be pretty common around here.”

Ahsoka nodded, while Rex noted the information on his datapad. 

For a moment, no one spoke, before Tup sighed and scratched his head. “I’m not really sure what to make of mine.”

“That’s alright,” Ahsoka said. “If you’d like, you can show us.”

Tup nodded, before loosing the straps on his armor and pulling up his sleeve.

 _Inhibitor chip malfunction,_ Ahsoka and Rex read.

Rex’s eyes widened. He’d never felt truly at ease with the chip in his head—no clone he knew of did—but the idea that it could kill him was a new one. Dread settled in his gut, and he lifted his head to look at Tup. How—

“I know,” Tup nodded, withdrawing his arm. 

Ahsoka, with a deep frown on her face, glanced from clone to clone. “Wait a minute, what inhibitor chip?”

“We’ve each got one of ‘em,” Jesse explained, tapping a finger on the side of his head. “Long-necks said they were to prevent our template Jango Fett’s violent tendencies from manifesting in us, or something.”

“If you believe a word _they_ say,” Fives grumbled, folding his arms. He was still avoiding eye contact, both Rex and Ahsoka noticed. That was highly unlike him.

There was a pause, and Ahsoka pursed her lips. She didn’t like the sound of any of this. “Well, if it’s going to end up hurting you, Tup, we’ve got to get it out. I’m going to ask Anakin.” About other things, too, she vowed silently.

“Thank you, sir,” Tup said, a shadow of a smile returning to the corner of his lips.

Silence descended on the group again, and everyone, discreetly (or distinctly un-discreetly, in Jesse’s case) turned to Fives.

“Fives?” Rex asked. 

Jesse elbowed the man in question. “They’re going to have to see, buddy,” he whispered.

Fives huffed. Jesse was right, though he didn’t have to like it. Wordlessly, Fives followed Tup’s example and bared his arm, his eyes still lowered.

_Commander Fox._

Ahsoka audibly gasped. “Fox?”

Rex felt much the same. “Why would a brother…” 

Fives took the opportunity to rip his sleeve back down, wishing for all the galaxy he could just disappear. “Don’t ask me,” he mumbled.

Rex frowned, something in the words tickling at his subconscious. “Wait a minute.” Reproducing his datapad from underneath his arm, he scrolled through the list of clone numbers found on the arms of Jedi. “Not a single one of these are names. Why would Fox’s real name appear on Fives?”

“That’s a really good point, Rex,” Ahsoka said. “It doesn’t make sense, but there still must be a reason.”

“Yeah, well, wouldn’t we all like to know,” Fives retorted, before turning his back and stalking off. 

For a moment, the rest stared in surprise, before Tup cut in. “Uh, I think I’d better follow him.” He nodded, before making to leave. “Sirs.”

Jesse hesitated, glancing back at the retreating figures of his friends. Once Tup was out of earshot, he made up his mind, and drew in closer to Rex and Ahsoka. “Sirs, if I may—please let us know what the General finds out. This whole thing has been awfully hard on a lot of us, but especially Tup and Fives. I think they’d really like some answers.”

“Of course,” Ahsoka agreed. 

“Don’t worry,” Rex said. “With what we’ve just seen, Tup and Fives will be first on our list.”

“Thank you, sirs,” Jesse said, before bowing his head and trailing after Tup.

Ahsoka and Rex turned, simultaneously, to give each other a look.

“The General needs to see this.”

***

“Inhibitor chip malfunction?” Anakin squinted at the holographic figure of Rex. “Are you sure?”

“Very, unfortunately,” Rex confirmed.

Anakin folded his arms. Such talk of chips was bringing back memories. Bad memories. The sort of very bad, no-good memories he preferred to lock in a little chest deep down inside of himself so he could try his very best to forget they existed—though it never worked.

An “inhibitor chip” that ended up killing a clone.

Sounded an awful lot like a slave chip.

Was the whole Grand Army of the Republic composed of slaves—and he’d never seen it?

He clenched his fist. He had some Kaminoans to talk to.

“Sir,” Rex interrupted his thoughts, voice hesitant. “Ahsoka and I wanted to ask if it would be possible for Kix to remove Tup’s chip.”

“Do it,” Anakin said immediately. He was certain that would be breaking some sort of protocol—but who was Anakin Skywalker, if not a flouter of protocol?

Who was Anakin Skywalker, if not a liberator of slaves?

“Thank you, sir,” Rex nodded.

Anakin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Is there anything else?”

“Sir, we haven’t finished the report yet, but...there are some other alarming manners of death.” Rex looked up from his datapad, waiting for assent.

“Go on,” Anakin said.

“We… discovered the names of several Jedi among the clones,” Rex said. “Generals Yoda and… Kenobi were among them.”

Anakin started, before leaning forward. “Obi-Wan?”

Rex’s face was all sympathy. “I’m afraid so.”

Anakin frowned and attempted to refrain from punching something. (He had rather… _violent_ instincts along that vein sometimes—actually, more often than he wanted to admit.) “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It gets worse,” Rex grimaced.

“What now,” Anakin said, his tone more flat and impatient than he intended.

Rex winced. “Sir, Fives’s words said ‘Commander Fox.’ Which… while horrible, make even less sense, because all of the clones we’ve seen so far on the Jedi’s words have been identified by number, not name. Fox is an exception to the rule, so it must be important.”

Anakin rested his head on his chin. All of this was making his head spin. “Thank you for the information, Rex. Why don’t you and the boys take a break for a little while.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Rex said, and the transmission cut out.

For a moment, Anakin was still, before he sank onto his bed with a groan. Kark it, why did everything have to turn out to be such a mess?

Before too long, Anakin ended up doing what he always did when he encountered messes he couldn’t handle (messes that were, most frequently, his very own handiwork). He called Obi-Wan.

And when the news about the 501st reached Obi-Wan, who already knew of the legion’s involvement in a larger portion of Jedi killings… well, he was grimly unsurprised by the idea he might have killed some of the 501st in return. A small piece of the puzzle slid into place in Obi-Wan’s mind—one he wouldn’t dare share with Anakin. Anakin’s battalion was fated to have a central role in the clones’ great betrayal of the Jedi.

Stuck deeper in Obi-Wan’s craw, but attached to less conclusions yet, was the distinction between the words’ usage of the clones’ names and numbers. Names were who the clones truly were, who they chose to be—but numbers were the clones as they were manufactured, engineered to follow orders, and nothing else.

Somewhere down the line, and perhaps concurrently with their inherent betrayal, the clones would lose what made them themselves.

***

(Now, it would be remiss not to note that at some point during this phenomenon, the name Luke Skywalker also became known throughout the galaxy, found primarily on the wrists of humans from various Core worlds. Unfortunately, due to the simplistic nature of the spell, the citizens of the galaxy had no way of knowing that those he was destined to fell would be members of the evil Galactic Empire, serving aboard the sinister Death Star. Thus, the Holonet’s best investigators attempted to locate him, much as they had Captain Wilhuff Tarkin. However, they found no records of a living being in the galaxy with a name that matched, thus causing most to lose interest. Some theorists made the leap that Luke was somehow related to the most famous Skywalker in the galaxy, Anakin—one they had no way of knowing was, in fact, correct—but the traction of most theories soon died out as residents of Hutt Space in the Outer Rim pointed out that Skywalker was a fairly common slave name. In this way, Anakin and his family narrowly managed to avoid further scrutiny in conjunction with a known future mass murderer.)

***

On Malachor, a certain Sith Lord opened his eyes for the first time in two days.

Darth Sidious was a player on the dejarik board once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE shout-out to ElizabethOlsonIsMySpiritAnimal, who 100% guessed the Tarkin twist. Y'all are too smart for your own good!


	4. In which some Sith Lords have a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darth Sidious is awake, and some evil Sith planning and plotting is bound to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, I managed to update in a couple weeks, not a couple months! Yay!
> 
> Thank you all for your support, and for all of the theories. Phew! You guys take this idea and really run with it!

Upon waking, the first things Darth Sidious noticed were his throbbing headache, a heavy sense of fatigue, and a massive ache in his back (for, after all, he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a young man). As his thoughts began to clear, he realized that: a) he had no idea how long he had been unconscious, b) he had been knocked unconscious in the first place, by his own evil spell no less, and c) he had no idea whether or not said evil spell had even worked.

Sidious frowned. He had the distinct sensation of being caught off-balance. 

There were few things Sidious hated more.

Irritated, Sidious snapped to his feet and surveyed his surroundings, stifling a groan as his vertebrae cracked into place. (Again, old man problems). His cauldron was empty, as was the rest of the dark and desolate temple—factors which didn’t give him any real clues about the spell. Oh, but wait—the words, he recalled with a jolt, the fog in his mind clearing. Sidious pulled back his sleeve in haste. It was time to find out who he had to destroy.

 _Anakin Skywalker,_ he read.

For a long moment, Sidious stared, frozen, at his forearm. Then, with a burst of rage, he turned on his heel and began a purposeful march in the direction of his ship, his ever-dramatic black Sith cloak billowing out behind him. 

Anakin Skywalker. The boy who was supposed to be his new apprentice—or, more accurately, his new attack dog. Sidious hadn’t chosen him for his competence, really—for all that he was powerful in the Force, his most favorable trait as a new apprentice was supposed to have been the _unlikeliness_ that he could surpass his Master. Skywalker was the perfect choice because he was almost ridiculously easy to manipulate. Or, at least, so Sidious had thought. Apparently, he had miscalculated—a fact which rankled with him. His plans were supposed to be perfect. He was The Superior Sith Lord™ of the galaxy. How was _Skywalker_ supposed to best him?

Now, Sidious would have to dispose of his best investment—since, of course, that’s all anyone ever was to Darth Sidious. Useful people or people he fantasized about murdering whenever he was bored. This line blurred a good deal, anyway—but Sidious had an admirable patience, at least in his eyes, when it came to his precious galaxy-takeover plans. 

Still stewing in his anger, Sidious reached his ship at last. Within no time, Sidious had departed the system, course set for Coruscant. Only then did he glance at the holopad he’d left in the ship—

—Wait. _Two days?_ He’d been out for _two days?_

Such a sudden fury coursed through Sidious’s veins that he nearly choked with the force of it. He snatched up the holopad. He’d had a major bill granting him more emergency powers set to be voted on yesterday. How dare that Force-damned ritual delay an event of such importance—

—and then, Sidious saw a news headline. Then, another. To his credit, he only remained perplexed for a couple moments before he figured out what had happened.

There was a reason that Sith spell had exploded out of his control (quite literally). It hadn’t just affected him. No, instead, the cursed ritual had gone and applied itself to the whole _galaxy._

At this moment, Sidious felt a rather vexing urge to scream.

His _plans._ All of his meticulous, malevolent plans. Everything knocked out of balance, premature, out of his iron-fisted control. Sidious really wished he had someone he could kill, slowly and painfully, for this failure, but there was just a _slight_ problem with this course of action. If he was really, truly honest with himself—something Sidious didn’t frequently care to be—he had no one to blame but himself.

Inconceivable.

Refusing to dwell on such an _intolerable_ idea, Sidious refocused on the events of the past two days. At least Order 66 had not been discovered, ensuring his plans were salvageable. There was also a common thread among most of the words discovered— widespread death and destruction of such a _delicious_ degree that could only be his own handiwork. His plans had been, apparently, destined to succeed. The name Darth Vader, which he had picked out for Skywalker, had been discovered as a prolific future killer—

Wait. Sidious scowled and stared at his arm once more. If the name Darth Vader was found throughout the galaxy, why was this not the name displayed on him, instead of Skywalker?

Unless—Skywalker would have somehow been destined to turn back to the Light, before attempting to kill Sidious himself—and succeeding.

 _That’s it._ Sidious rose abruptly. He could not tolerate Skywalker living any longer. As he called up a bounty hunter to set up an assassination attempt, he spared only a fleeting moment to mourn the loss. How tragic. Such a waste of Sidious’s effort.

Now, he only had to contact all the links of his plans, create new connections where tools had vanished or dissolved (like the regrettable loss of Tarkin), start a good dozen misinformation campaigns to bury the worst of his planned atrocities, keep a firm eye on the Jedi Council, keep launching assassination plots against Skywalker until they worked, and, most urgently of all, find a new potential apprentice.

Sidious nearly shook with fury at the thought of all his undone work. Soon, soon, the galaxy would _pay_ —but, as ever, not quite yet. Not until he was certain he’d win.

***

Elsewhere in the galaxy, things weren’t going too well for yet another Sith Lord.

If there was one thing Darth Maul had learned from his former Master, it was to always have a plan, no matter how unhinged and deranged you truly were on the inside. (And if anyone was crazy, it was most certainly Maul). So, Maul knew, getting proper revenge on Kenobi would be a task better accomplished with patience.

Unfortunately for him, he had, evidently, followed this same advice in another life.

Things _had_ been going great with the pirates; they’d eaten up his dramatic introduction (that he totally hadn’t been practicing in the ‘fresher beforehand), and seemed rightfully intimidated. 

But then they asked for his name. All he had to say was, “I am Maul,” before the pirates decided, with a surprising amount of coordination for such rabble, to start firing.

Apparently, being the destined future killer of a pirate is a very effective deterrent for their cooperation. After all, there is nothing pirates will follow over their own self-interest and preservation.

So, after that rather unsuccessful attempt, Maul and Savage decided to go to Plan B, and try to recruit some crime families and drug cartels. He even avoided giving them a name—but the dratted Pykes had too many ears in low places, and as soon as they showed up—

—well, shows of force, even if one is a powerful Dark Side wielder, only go so far against large armies.

So, it was with a significantly smaller amount of underlings than he’d planned—that is to say, none—that Maul, with Savage in tow as always, approached Death Watch.

“And who are you supposed to be?” the leader—Pre Viszla, was it?—asked him first thing once Maul had been escorted inside his tent.

Maul, biting down his annoyance, settled for drawling, as mysteriously as possible, “Someone who can help you achieve what you desire.”

Viszla raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? And I’m supposed to believe you’re just _that_ generous?” 

Maul lifted his chin, handily meeting Viszla’s gaze. “Let’s just say we share a common enemy.”

Viszla, his squinting gaze still quite skeptical, said nothing for a moment, before crossing his legs and leaning against a couple of stray stacked crates, his casual posture meant to intimidate (an attempt Maul found quite pathetic). “Alright, so say that’s true. What, then, can you offer me?”

“Power,” Maul said. He placed his hands behind his back and began to stride around the room. “Vision. Victory. Thus far, you have aimed too low in your undertakings, but I—I can see further, beyond your modest goals. I can make you a force to be reckoned with.”

Viszla folded his arms. “I’m only interested in Mandalore.”

“And you shall have it,” Maul explained, “but not without a stronger fighting force, a clearer plan. And an answer to the Jedi.”

“The Jedi,” Viszla echoed, straightening despite himself. “You think you can beat them?”

“Ah yes, you see, we are stronger than Jedi. We are,” Maul said, opening his cloak wide enough to display his lightsaber, “Sith Lords.”

Viszla eyed the saber. “Prove it.”

Ah, just what Maul had wanted. With a smirk, Maul surveyed his surroundings. He didn’t want to antagonize, but he needed to intimidate. So he could afford to be a _little_ destructive… and to think big.

Spreading his arms wide, Maul seized the multiple tall munitions racks behind him and lifted them upwards, watching in satisfaction as Viszla followed them with wide eyes—before letting them tumble down with a resounding _CRASH._

“So, Viszla,” Maul smiled. “Do we have a deal?”

Viszla stretched out his hand to shake on it. “We have a deal.”

*** 

“I can’t believe this law is even necessary,” Padmé Amidala sighed, sinking into the seat at her desk. 

“Neither can I,” Bail Organa agreed, settling into the chair opposite her. “We live in strange times.”

“You know, you don’t have to be a part of drafting the legislation, if you don’t want to,” Padmé said, giving him a concerned glance. “I would understand.”

“No,” Bail shook his head. “It is the morally correct thing to do. In fact, it’s _because_ of what happened to Alderaan that I need to be at the forefront of this bill. I can give it far more legitimacy, more staying power than otherwise, if I am attached to it.”

“If you’re sure,” Padmé said with a grim smile, before turning back to the bill in front of her.

Said bill did not have a name yet—probably because the concept of it was so absurd. Padmé, Bail, and their allies were looking to pass legislation preventing the punishment of individuals for supposed future crimes they hadn’t yet committed.

Now, to anyone with a modicum of common sense, this idea may seem like a given—but the galaxy, war-torn and reeling from a very bizarre supernatural event, was not exactly a place where such things as reason prevailed. Tarkin’s assassin had been arrested, but many people, specifically planetary governors, saw no reason to punish those who took vengeance–especially when it suited their interests. Neither did Senator Burtoni and her gang, though that might have been expected. However, no one else in the Senate seemed to be very passionate about doing what needed to be done, what with the uproar the chamber had been in for the last two days, especially since the Chancellor had only returned from his mysterious absence that morning. So, of course, Padmé and Bail found themselves having to be the ones to write the bill. 

After a good hour or so, the two had at last produced a serviceable draft. Padmé set down her holo and surveyed her work.

“This is not going to be easy to sell,” Padmé sighed. 

“Laws worth passing often aren’t,” Bail replied. “But democracy must be preserved, if nothing else.”

“My thoughts exactly, Bail,” Padmé smiled, rising to shake hands. “Thank you for your support. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Bail nodded.

***

Later that day on the debate floor, Padmé’s concerns proved founded. Padmé wasn’t usually a very flappable person, but the lack of care some of her fellow senators possessed for basic sentient rights was, well, rather deplorable. Sure, her bill wasn’t glamorous, but couldn’t they see it was necessary?

(Padmé perhaps had a too-generous dose of faith in the nature of sentient life-forms.)

So, after a long and hard debate (read: extended barely-civil argument), Padmé decided she deserved at least somewhat of a break. Retreating to her apartment, she set C-3PO on keeping-people-out duty and did what she did to decompress. She commed her husband.

Today, Anakin didn’t take very long to respond. “Padmé,” his holographic figure greeted her, relief coloring his voice.

“Hello to you too, Ani,” Padmé teased. “What’s going on with you?”

Anakin rubbed his forehead. “Investigations and more investigations,” he huffed. “None of it’s right, Padmé. We keep on finding out worse and worse things every time we turn around.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it’s not,” Anakin continued, his momentum unchecked. “And the 501st seems to be involved in everything even worse than the rest of the clones. I mean, there are 501st clone numbers spread all over the Temple, including _younglings,_ Padmé, _younglings_ —and Obi-Wan is supposed to kill some of my own troops—and then there’s the chips! Padmé, the clones all have chips, in their heads, and I can’t get anything out of the kriffing Kaminoans on what exactly they’re even for! Honestly, I don’t care what bantha shavit they say about the chips being their private property, or whatever, I’m having those things analyzed as soon as Kix gets one of them out of Tup’s head.”

Padmé blinked. “Slow down, Ani, you said there’s chips in their _heads_?”

Anakin scowled and folded his arms. “Yeah, in their kriffing heads. All the Kaminoans will say about them is that they’re for making the clones less aggressive than Jango Fett, but none of my troops buy that, and I’m honestly inclined to believe them.”

Padmé brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face. Stars, just when she thought the democratic abuses in this galaxy couldn’t get any worse. “Any good news?” she asked, a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

Anakin gave a quick laugh. “Well, uh, Obi-Wan at least agrees with me. Something’s up with the clones, and it might be part of the Siths’ plot.”

“That’s good to hear,” Padmé offered. 

“What about you, Padmé?” Anakin asked. “Anything better?”

She winced. “I’m afraid not. The Senate isn’t exactly seeing reason.”

“Well, what else are Senators good for,” came the sardonic response, and Padmé gave her husband a good-natured eye roll.

“Bail and I are trying to pass a law to keep people from taking vengeance on others because of the words,” Padmé explained. “I can’t imagine why people don’t seem to understand how damaging it would be to punish people for things they haven’t yet done.”

There was a pause, and Padmé glanced at Anakin to find him frowning, a somewhat perplexed expression on his face. “What’s so wrong with that, though?” he countered. “I mean, if they haven’t done it yet, they will.”

Frustration bubbled up within Padmé, and she pursed her lips. She’d spent half the day arguing for this law, and now she had to do it again, to her own husband? “Circumstances change. Ani, surely you saw the future isn’t fixed. We don’t know that for sure.”

“Whatever, I guess,” Anakin shrugged. “You’re the politician.”

Padmé narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.

Suddenly, Anakin’s commlink beeped, cutting the tension. “It’s Kix—Tup is out of surgery. Kix got the chip out!” Anakin turned his gaze to Padmé. “I’ve got to go. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Padmé said, the response automatic, and the call ended.

Padmé sighed, letting her hands fall into her lap, and turned to stare out her grand windows at the ever-rushing Coruscanti traffic.

Why did it feel, so frequently these days, like she was fighting an uphill battle?

***

Three days. Three days, and the Confederacy of Independent Systems had made no progress whatsoever.

Nute Gunray was still sniveling about Darth Vader this, Darth Vader that. Trench wanted to go after Skywalker. Grievous was still insufferably fixated on Kenobi. Nothing was new. Count Dooku left the latest Separatist military meeting feeling it had accomplished nothing save to irritate him, personally.

At least Sidious was back in the picture. Not that Dooku preferred having to follow his Master’s whims, but a Sidious he could keep track of was, in all honesty, far less scary than a Sidious gone off the grid. Though, “scary” was never a word Dooku would have used himself—firstly, because the correct word was probably closer to “terrifying,” and secondly, because a gentleman Count does not allow himself to get scared. Dooku had a reputation to preserve, after all.

So, Sidious was back, and he had made no indication the general plan was to be called off. This was a good thing, in Dooku’s mind, since it made Sidious more predictable. Unfortunately, part of Sidious’s plan was to dispose of him, so Dooku still had to be on his toes.

However, Sidious’s new orders had been minimal, all things considered. Maintain current campaigns. Squelch the spread of disadvantageous information. Lay relatively low. This gave Dooku the space to start some potential maneuverings of his own.

Which were _supposed_ to have started with the assassination of Anakin Skywalker.

Dooku called up the bounty hunter he’d hired for the task. “Parasitti.”

The holo of the shapeshifter flickered into existence. “Count Dooku,” she replied, looking far too unconcerned for such a truant hire. 

Dooku gave her a deep glare. “Did I not hire you to complete a job?” 

“There were some complications,” Parasitti said, “but I’m nearly in position.”

“I am not paying you to ‘get into position’,” Dooku reproached her. “Perhaps the rumors of your reputation have been unfounded?”

Dooku could see the very moment she decided to stand down and defer to his authority, instead of continuing in her insolence. It pleased him. Such moments were his favorites. “No, Count,” Parasitti rasped. 

“Then see to it that Skywalker is dead,” Dooku ordered, “or I will have to find… _alternate_ arrangements.” Unsaid, but still understood by both parties: or I’ll have to kill you.

“Yes, Count Dooku.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so, if it wasn't already obvious at the beginning of this chapter: in my book, the Sequel Trilogy never happened. Palps died on the Second Death Star. End. Of. Story.
> 
> Stay tuned for some more antics from a galaxy far, far away!


	5. In which shavit hits the fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ne'er-do-wells appear, and trouble follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, surprise surprise! I got so into this chapter that I couldn't help but finish it as soon as possible, and here I am! 
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely feedback—you guys are the sweetest.

On a Coruscanti market street, just a block away from both the Senate Building and the Jedi Temple, a lone figure strode. A jaunty, wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, but did not obscure the long toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

To any ordinary passerby, the figure looked, at first glance, like someone to avoid, his confident saunter and prominent blasters prompting a well-deserved wide berth. But to those in the know, this particular man wasn’t just someone to pass on the street at a distance. No, upon seeing him, it was far preferable to call the cops—heck, better, a full Jedi detail—and then _run away._

Trouble always followed Cad Bane. It was simply how he liked to live.

Presently, Bane reached the underside of a shadowy awning, and suddenly halted. He scanned his surroundings. _Something_ had moved, in a way too quiet not to be suspicious—

—and then Bane was tackled, sending him sprawling across the ground. Without wasting a moment, Bane twisted out of his attacker’s grasp and fired a couple of blind shots in the direction they’d just been. A couple more punches, kicks, and crowd-scattering stray shots later, and Cad Bane found himself grappling, face to face, with someone he knew. Cato Parasitti, a shapeshifter he’d hired for a job a couple years back. 

Well. She was certainly glad to see him.

“Parasitti,” Bane drawled. “I see you’re out of prison.”

“Didn’t suit me,” she retorted. She aimed a kick at Bane’s shin, which he only barely managed to avoid, twisting away and slamming her front-first into a wall. Parasitti coughed, attempting to catch her breath. “You’re one to talk, anyway,” she rasped.

“You know how it is,” Bane replied, nonchalant. “So. What’re you here for?”

“I was just about to ask you,” came the response, causing Bane to tighten his grip in warning. Parasitti winced. “Fine. I’m on a job.”

“What kind of job?” Bane pressed.

“The Jedi-killing kind,” Parasitti ground out.

“Which one?”

“Like I’d tell you,” Parasitti grunted, earning her a kick in the shin. _Ow. Sithspit._ “Fine, fine, fine,” she sighed. “Skywalker.”

All of a sudden, Bane released her. Parasitti slumped against the wall, rubbing her wrists and giving Bane a wary look. 

Bane slid his blasters back into his holsters. “Well, then, maybe we can come to an understanding,” he said. “Skywalker's my target as well.”

Parasitti narrowed her eyes. “Who’s your employer?”

Bane paused for a moment, considering whether the information was worth giving out, before deciding it’d be in his best interest if he knew whether Parasitti was his competition. “Shady old man named Sidious.”

“Huh. Skywalker must be real popular,” Parasitti groused. “I was hired by Count Dooku.”

Bane raised his eyebrows. “So, if we both take him down, we both get paid. Whaddya say we work together?”

Parasitti studied him a moment, deciding whether or not to trust him (after all, she _had_ gotten burned doing a job with Bane before)—but the benefits outweighed the drawbacks, this time. She smirked. “Sure.”

A siren went off in the distance, evidently due to the ruckus they’d made during their tussle, and the two exchanged glances.

“Let’s get out of here.”

***

The Senate was abuzz. The Supreme Chancellor, freshly returned from his ill-timed personal vacation, was about to make his first public speech since the arrival of the death-words.

Reporters lined every entryway. Every Senate seat was filled. The chamber waited, expectant.

Then, Chancellor Palpatine himself strode out onto his personal pod, and the crowd erupted into applause. Palpatine waved, with his ever-grandfatherly smile, and the Senators felt something settle within them. The chaos was over. Palpatine was back. He’d take care of it.

Palpatine surveyed his army of fervent supporters. Only those who knew what to look for could catch the sharp glint in his eye, the sinister curl of his smile.

He opened his mouth and began to speak.

***

“Kix, tell me it’s good news.”

Kix’s holographic figure smiled. “Tup’s going to be perfectly fine.”

Anakin gave a heavy sigh of relief. Next to him, Obi-Wan gave a slight nod of approval, his bearing still otherwise pensive.

“What can you tell me about the chip, Kix?” Anakin asked.

“It certainly wasn’t easy to find in the first place, I’ll tell you that much, sir,” Kix said. “We actually ended up needing a little help from the Commander.”

Anakin raised an eyebrow. “Ahsoka helped? How’d she do that?” 

Kix scratched his head. “Well, uh, it beats me. Jedi business.” 

(The clones, in general, _really_ tried not to ask when it came to the Force. Prying further only seemed to bring a world of headache and trouble.)

Anakin smirked. “I see.”

“Well, anyway,” Kix continued, “once she found it, we got it out no problem. Whatever she did helped our scanners pick it up, too, so we could find it again in other clones—” Kix cut himself off, and cleared his throat. “That is, if need be, sir,” he added hastily.

So, Kix wanted to remove some more chips. Anakin found he couldn’t blame him—but he couldn’t advocate for that right away, especially not in Obi-Wan’s more level-headed presence.

Said Jedi was still quiet, frowning and stroking his beard like he always did when he was puzzling something out. 

Anakin nudged him. “What is it?”

Obi-Wan gave Anakin a _look,_ before turning to Kix. “How large was this chip?”

“Hold on, sir, I’ve actually got it right here.” Kix bowed out of the picture, before returning with a small, clear slide. He held it up to the holo.

Anakin stared. The chip was unlike anything he’d seen, looking for all the world like legitimate brain cells, not a computing chip. His stomach turned. Somehow, that was worse. 

“That’s quite the large implant for the scanners not to pick it up,” Obi-Wan mused, brow furrowing further.

“I know, sir,” Kix sighed. “With all due respect, I think the Kaminoans _really_ didn’t want it out of our heads.” 

Anakin clenched his fists and stepped forward. “I’d like to take a look at that thing. We need to see what’s on it.”

Obi-Wan pursed his lips. “Anakin, it’s imperative we be careful about this.” 

“What, you’re just going to let the Kaminoans keep their dirty little secrets to themselves?” Anakin challenged.

Obi-Wan gave a put-upon sigh. “No, Anakin, I only mean that we need to be _discreet.”_

 _Oh._ Sheepish, Anakin mulled it over. Obi-Wan was right (shocking, indeed). They had to go about this quietly.

“Kix,” Anakin said. “I’m going to send Rex and Ahsoka back to the Temple with the chip. Give it to them, but make sure it stays quiet. If we’re going to investigate this, we need to keep it on a strictly need-to-know basis.” 

“Sir, yes sir!” Kix saluted, and the holocall flickered out.

Anakin turned back to Obi-Wan, only to see that he was still frowning. “Something wrong?”

“Do you truly expect the chip to be something you can decode?” Obi-Wan inquired.

Anakin’s shoulders slumped a little. “I mean, it’s worth a try. After all, tech is still tech, no matter what it looks like.”

“True,” Obi-Wan replied, giving Anakin a shrewd look, “but what are you prepared to do, should your efforts fail?”

Honestly? It didn’t take long for him to think it over—screw the Kaminoans, he had no qualms about spying on them—but aloud he simply decided to take a page from Obi-Wan’s book. “We’ll see.”

Obi-Wan said nothing, but gave Anakin a look that he bet meant _I know you too well to buy that bantha shavit_ —well, at least, that would be the sentiment, translated into Anakin’s terms. Obi-Wan’s version would probably sound something more like _I am far too well acquainted with your idiosyncrasies, padawan, not to discern that you are being dishonest._ Or something like that.

Just then, Anakin’s commlink beeped to indicate an incoming holo transmission. “Oh, what now,” he muttered—

—before the call opened up to reveal his very own wife on the other line. “Pad—Senator Amidala!” he exclaimed, immediately perking up. 

(Obi-Wan fought the urge to sigh. Speaking of discreet—the word just did not seem to be in his former apprentice’s vocabulary. Honestly, who was Anakin fooling?)

“Anakin, Obi-Wan, it’s good to see you,” Padmé greeted, giving a warm nod to both.

“What is the occasion, Senator Amidala?” Obi-Wan asked.

“I would like to invite you both to speak with me, as well as and Senator Mothma, in person,” Padmé replied. “It has come to our attention that you’ve been conducting some important investigations regarding the death-words that are parallel to our own, and we’d very much appreciate the ability to share some of that information together.”

“I’d have to speak with the Council,” Obi-Wan said, “but I’d be glad if we could assist.”

“Wait,” Anakin interjected. “What about the law you told me you were working on earlier? The one preventing people from punishing future killers?”

(Obi-Wan attempted once more to pretend not to notice Anakin’s blatant hint as to his... _close_ relationship with Senator Amidala.)

Padmé pressed her lips together. “The situation with that law…changed. Chancellor Palpatine and his closest allies have co-opted the bill.”

“That means he intends to pass it, right?” Anakin leaned forward. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Padmé sighed. “I wish, but from what I’ve heard, they’re re-writing it, broadening its scope and making the punishments more forceful. I don’t like the direction it’s headed.”

Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed. Another potentially worrying development. “Is it not possible to sway them?”

“Bail’s trying to schedule a meeting with Mas Amedda,” Padmé said. “In the meantime, the more we know about the words, the better our arguments can be. We need to prove to the Senate that the future is changeable, but that all of the potential threats we find must be taken seriously, to prevent them.”

Obi-Wan nodded in agreement. “Anakin and I will see what we can do.”

“Thank you, Master Jedi,” Padmé beamed.

Unbeknownst to the occupants of the room, a small, black reconnaissance droid scuttled across the ceiling, through the door frame, and down the hall, into a waiting hand.

“Interesting.”

***

“Your intel better be good, Parasitti,” Cad Bane grunted from his position, lying prostrate on an advantageous rooftop near the Senate building. He opened the cartridges of his rifle, checking the mechanisms to be sure everything was properly in place, and then brought the scope of the weapon to his eye, scanning the street below.

“I thought you weren’t the sniper type,” Parasitti snorted from behind him.

Bane, apparently satisfied with his vantage point, lowered the rifle and rose to a standing position. “I have many skills. What’s most important is what suits the plan.”

“Right. You said.” Parasitti leaned back against a wall, arms folded. “Sniper shots are better than getting in close, since they’re Jedi and all, yadda yadda yadda. If those fail, they at least cause a panic and separate the Jedi from the crowd, and then we get the jump on them since we’re closer than they expect. We’ve been over this.”

“And then?”

Parasitti sighed and began to morph. Soon, the person standing in her place looked, for all the world, identical to a Coruscant Guard clone. 

“I line the street with charges.”

“And?” Bane said, raising an eyebrow.

“And, if _that_ fails, I get to Skywalker’s speeder in the meantime and rig _it_ up to blow. You sure have a lot of failsafes, Bane.”

“It’s why I’m the best,” Bane stated. In his mind, this wasn’t even a boast. Simply the truth.

For her part, Parasitti was beginning to question Bane's _supposed_ superiority and all of his high-and-mighty ideas.

“It’s still a kinda direct approach. If this were _my_ plan, I’d go for poison—”

“Haven’t you learned anything about Jedi?” Bane interrupted. “The best medical care in the galaxy is at the Jedi Temple. They always survive poisonings.”

“Not if you get one that acts fast enough.”

“And you have one fast enough?”

There was a pause. “No, I was gonna shoot him point-blank—but I _could_ get some—”

Suddenly, a bright green object resembling some sort of tentacle rushed through the air, curling around Cad Bane’s body and yanking him to the ground. Before Parasitti could truly react (or make sense of what in the _galaxy_ she was even seeing), a purple and green figure landed next to her on the rooftop and swiftly sent her sprawling with a well-aimed kick.

In an ironic turn of events, while the galaxy’s self-proclaimed best bounty hunter and his shapeshifting accomplice were discussing—not arguing, _discussing_ —getting the jump on their target, they allowed someone else to get the jump on _them._

Said attacker reeled Cad Bane in, attempting to meet him with a punch, but Bane, ever wily, managed to grab one of his pistols and fire several shots at his assailant, causing the tentacle (for lack of a better word) to release him. Both combatants dropped and rolled. When they rose again, they were joined by Parasitti, who had swiftly gotten out her blaster and was now pointing it at the newcomer. Within milliseconds, the rooftop settled into one big standoff. 

It was then that Cad Bane recognized his attacker. Orange pigtails, purple skin, peculiar green boa-constrictor-like weapons. He’d worked with this bounty hunter before. Granted, there were few bounty hunters of note in the galaxy he _hadn’t_ worked with before, and this one hadn’t really made much of an impression. Nevertheless, he remembered her name. He rarely forgot a face.

“Latts Razzi.”

She sneered at him. “Cad Bane. What a pleasure.”

***

Less than 200 yards away, a speeder carrying none other than Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker arrived at a platform near the Senate Building. 

“So, what _did_ the Council say we were allowed to share?”

“Anakin, the matter of the clones cannot yet be public knowledge,” Obi-Wan chided. “We can help on the matter of the Sith Lords, however, since their names are already widely known.”

Anakin cringed inwardly. He had to concede the point about the general public—but he hoped Obi-Wan wouldn’t discover what he’d already told Padmé. 

The two Jedi rounded a corner and started down a new street. 

Anakin ran his fingers through his hair. “Obi-Wan—do you really think we’re going to be able to get rid of the Sith?”

Obi-Wan paused and turned to look his former padawan in the eyes. It was rare that Anakin allowed himself to be this vulnerable—which must mean this was truly bothering him. “What do you mean?”

Anakin averted his gaze. “I feel like we’re getting nowhere. All we’re discovering are more and more ways the Sith have kriffed everything up. I just—I wonder if we’re ever going to be able to get ahead of them, you know?”

Obi-Wan’s heart sank. “Oh, Anakin.”

There was a pause, and Anakin stared at his shoes—before clenching his fists, his posture becoming more rigid. “I wish we knew who they were,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous.

***

Meanwhile, on the bounty hunters’ rooftop, the standoff had swiftly dissolved into a skirmish, which in turn swiftly dissolved into an all-out brawl.

Latts Razzi hadn’t deigned to be particularly upfront about why she had decided to attack, simply spitting out a few insults (“You backstabbing, slithering _sleemo!”_ ) now and again. Parasitti had chosen Bane’s side, grumbling about her job getting interrupted. However, despite the fact that the fight was two against one, Razzi’s tentacles (“They’re _grappling boas,_ you ignorant bantha poodoo!”) made it difficult for her opponents to get any good licks in. Parasitti had changed back into her natural form, and Bane had brought out several of his tricks, but the boas were inescapable.

So, here they were. All three, splayed out across the rooftop. Parasitti’s knee was wrapped around Razzi’s neck, Bane’s elbow was digging uncomfortably into Parasitti’s side, Razzi was draped somewhat uncomfortably across Bane’s face, and her tentacles—sorry, _boas_ —were wrapped, rather indiscriminately, around all three. 

It was in this awfully awkward position that Cade Bane finally managed to grab hold of Razzi’s arm and take a peek at her death-words.

_Cad Bane._

Bane's hunch was confirmed. Well. This whole encounter suddenly made a lot more sense.

“Look, Razzi,” Bane wheezed. “Whatever I would’ve done would’ve been nothing personal. Why don’t we call it a day, and we can go our separate—”

“How dare you,” Razzi growled. 

“What?” asked Parasitti. 

They ignored her.

 _“Nothing personal?”_ Razzi cried, and she managed to find the strength to topple Parasitti, sending all three rolling. “Of course it’s personal! It’s my _life,_ you son of a Hutt!”

Bane gasped in a breath, suddenly freed from his previous suffocation. He glanced around for an opening. It was from this new vantage point—albeit, with his legs still tangled in Razzi’s boas and his arms pinned underneath her knees—that Cad Bane noticed the street.

His target had come into range.

Cad Bane scowled. He was never one not to finish a job. 

Inching his fingers onto the cuffs on his wrists, Bane managed to press the button igniting his jetpack, an action which succeeded in getting him un-pinned, but not in freeing his legs from Razzi’s cursed boas. Bane decided to turn this to his advantage, dragging the whole string of people, dangling, through the air until he was wrenched free. 

Bane watched the other two fall, cursing and screaming, to the rooftop with a _thump._ The corners of his mouth quirked upward at his victory. 

With no time to waste, Bane scrambled for his sniper rifle at the edge of the roof. He lifted the scope to his eye, scanning—

—and then he was tackled from behind, and the rifle went skittering across the rooftop. 

“Don’t you ignore me, you bog-dwelling scum,” Razzi spat.

She punched him in the eye. Bane kneed her in the side. Razzi grabbed his breathing apparatus and pulled, but he managed to grab her shoulders and flip their positions, slamming her down into the ground. Bane crawled for the rifle, but Razzi wrapped her hands around his ankle and attempted to yank him backwards. Bane reached out an arm. The blaster was so close. Two inches… one inch…

***

“Come on,” Obi-Wan murmured presently. “The Senators must be waiting for us.”

Anakin nodded, moving to follow, before the Force screamed out a warning—

***

At last. Bane had the rifle. He looked behind his shoulder to Razzi and aimed a kick squarely in her face. It landed.

Using his momentary freedom, he aimed the blaster.

He pulled the trigger—

—someone screamed—

—Anakin Skywalker peered down, uncomprehending, at the smoking hole through his left shoulder—

***

—and the Force Ghost of the Daughter of Mortis stirred.

She had been keeping an eye on the galaxy through Morai, and had felt many disturbances in the Force, but something about this one felt more—urgent. Presented more diverging paths.

The Daughter extended her senses, and came across the scene, frozen in time.

The disturbance centered around Anakin Skywalker, one of the three Jedi who had been the last (truly) mortal beings she’d met before her own demise. She’d had a soft spot for all of them—Obi-Wan Kenobi, Skywalker, and especially Ahsoka Tano—since, so something protective stirred in her at the sight she beheld.

The timeline had changed since Sidious’s meddling. He’d learned too much about his own fate, and was now trying to change it. While the Light had gained the upper hand amidst the fallout of Sidious’s spell, the Daughter knew better than to assume that this advantage would last.

Sidious was taking advantage of the chaos to consolidate yet more power. The Jedi were no closer to discovering him—

—and his first assassination attempt against Anakin Skywalker had just nearly succeeded.

The Daughter was a powerful being who knew better than to meddle—but this conflicted with her kind nature. She had been persuaded by the spirit of her Father, ever since he’d passed, to leave destiny alone, to let things be as they may—but ever since Sidious’s great mistake, she realized how strongly she yearned for things to be different. 

She peered down, once more, at the tableau below her. 

Surely she could help her favorite Jedi knights, just a little bit.

Drawing up her remaining power, she let herself shine with the Light—

—and then, with a whisper and a caress, she vanished.

***

Sounds pulsed all around him—speeders, shouts—Obi-Wan’s voice. Anakin tried to concentrate on the sound of Obi-Wan’s voice—but he was floating, and the world was blurring at the edges, and the ground was coming up to meet him—

Vaguely, he felt a strong arm encircling him, the other grabbing his hand. Obi-Wan’s voice grew louder. Obi-Wan. It must be Obi-Wan holding him.

Suddenly, something tickled on his arm. It felt funny. He glanced down at it, clasped in Obi-Wan’s, and before his eyes, two names appeared, next to the names already there.

 _Darth Sidious/Sheev Palpatine,_ Anakin read on his own arm, and the world wheeled and spun—but, with a sort of morbid determination, his eyes drifted to Obi-Wan’s words.

_Darth Vader/Anakin Skywalker._

His blood turned to ice. How—why—

Anakin Skywalker promptly passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of these bounty hunters are OCs—all appeared at least once in the Clone Wars and have Wookiepedia pages. That being said, I did give both Cato Parasitti and Latts Razzi some details that aren't in canon. 
> 
> Hope to see y'all soon!


	6. In which the truth is out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man, in possession of the knowledge of his own wicked destiny, must be in want of most of his sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello! I thought at first I wouldn't have this ready, but here I am after all! Probably better so that I don't do the evil cliffhanger thing for too long...

Within hours, the news had spread throughout Coruscant. Someone had tried to kill the Hero With No Fear.

Reporters had been told that Anakin Skywalker had been spirited off to the med wing of the Jedi Temple and was currently undergoing treatment, but none could get any further updates on his condition. However, they _could_ report on the immensely satisfying chase that had ensued after the assassination attempt (once guards had arrived to take care of Skywalker). Someone had even managed to snag some nice footage they could replay of Obi-Wan Kenobi, the famed Negotiator himself, battling three bounty hunters across the rooftops near the Senate building, his blue lightsaber ablaze and his bearing all grim determination. Of course, the blue-skinned one with the funny hat—Cad Bane—had managed to use his accomplices as a distraction to make his getaway, and he had yet to be found. Still, Kenobi’s heroic arrest of the other two had been a particularly good snag for their views.

As for said bounty hunters—one of them had completely refused to talk, while the other hadn't told the police anything helpful, apparently determined to play the angle that she wasn’t involved in the plot at all. (“Cad Bane set me up! I. Didn’t. Do. Anything.”)

Chancellor Palpatine made a sorrowful statement on the lawlessness of these times, vowing to bring Cad Bane to justice. The reporters ate it up, and it was played and replayed all across Coruscant and the Core worlds.

(Unbeknownst to the general public, Palpatine was, in fact, planning to hunt Bane down—not because he’d committed a crime, of course, but because he’d failed and was now a liability.)

To those in the know, however—namely, only Obi-Wan Kenobi and Skywalker himself (once he woke up)—the assassination attempt was not the most noteworthy news of the day. No, that distinction belonged instead to the new words that had appeared on the two Jedis’ arms.

The identities of the two unknown Sith Lords had been revealed. 

***

“Master Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi started, ever so slightly, at the voice next to him, but, seeing it was only Vokara Che, he forced himself to relax. 

“As I’ve said before, we expect Knight Skywalker to make a full recovery,” Vokara said, voice soft and even. “I recommend that you get some rest.”

Obi-Wan turned his gaze back to Anakin, still suspended in the batca tank, like he’d been for the past several hours. “That won’t be necessary.”

From the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan saw Vokara press her lips together, but she said nothing.

Vokara’s concern was kind, but misplaced. She believed him to be simply concerned for his former padawan’s recovery—and while this was true, it wasn’t the reason why he couldn’t let Anakin out of his sight. 

No, the true reason was because of the new words.

Obi-Wan fought the urge to roll back his sleeve and stare at them once more, as if seeing them yet again would help him get his mind around the idea.

Anakin, a Sith. One destined to do such terrible deeds. 

Although, if Obi-Wan were to be honest, his discomfort with the notion wasn’t because it seemed unbelievable. It was because it made a strange, horrid sort of sense.

Obi-Wan had seen Anakin’s words as well, when he’d caught him as he fell. If Darth Sidious, presumably the Sith Master behind it all, was truly Palpatine… he fought the urge to shudder. Anakin was awfully close with the Chancellor. In fact, he had been since he’d first been brought to the Temple, at the age of nine.

Obi-Wan couldn’t escape the terrible, awful, logical conclusion that followed. Darth Sidious had been _grooming_ Anakin for over a decade. 

And it had all happened under Obi-Wan’s own watch. 

Obi-Wan gave a sharp exhale and glanced around. Vokara Che had long since left. He looked on at Anakin’s floating figure in the bacta once more, then rested his head in his hands.

And what if the truth got out...

Force, Obi-Wan had been relieved, almost despite himself, when it became clear that he and Anakin were the only ones with the knowledge of the Siths’ true identities. In fact, he'd even taken pains to conceal Anakin's words during treatment, adjusting his sleeves and distracting healers from them when necessary. Of course, the Council would want to know, and it was his technical duty to report new developments—and he couldn’t protect his padawan from himself forever—

—but Obi-Wan could not bring himself to increase Anakin’s burden any further.

Still, a part of him, deep down, remained queasy. The Dark Side was said to twist those who fell beneath its influence beyond reason, beyond recognition, but…

The words on his forearm seemed to burn, branding his very soul.

_Darth Vader._

_Anakin Skywalker._

***

Anakin Skywalker awoke seven hours and twenty-three minutes later. When he did, he only managed to process the blank gray durasteel of the med bay and the _extremely_ inconvenient fuzzy feeling in his head, before he succumbed to unconsciousness once more. No one noticed this incident, however, as, in an ironic turn of events, Obi-Wan Kenobi had fallen asleep in the bacta room.

Vokara Che had pointedly refused to rouse him.

The next time Anakin woke, he was similarly indisposed, but then, at last, a good thirty-four hours after the original assassination attempt, Anakin finally returned to consciousness in a manner coherent enough that he’d remember it.

Also fortunately for Anakin, Obi-Wan had by then awoken on his own (rather sheepishly) and had moved himself to sit by Anakin’s bedside.

This did not mean he had managed to stay awake the second time.

So, when Anakin opened his eyes, no one greeted him at first.

This gave him the chance to get himself oriented, a process that took perhaps a minute or two. See, the pain in his shoulder did little to help him remember what had occurred, and neither did his surroundings in the med bay, since Anakin had been previously shot, stabbed, maimed, tossed about, and what-have-you by this point in the war. 

But then he glanced to his side, where Obi-Wan sat, slumped (albeit only somewhat—the man refused to fully slouch)—and this was enough to trigger his memory of the latest events.

_The words._

Paling, Anakin jolted forward in a somewhat blind attempt to look at his forearm once more, but this proved to be a rather horrible decision, as the pain in his shoulder increased tenfold. A labored cry was wrenched from him, rousing Obi-Wan, who, upon waking, took in only Anakin’s open, wide eyes before he leapt to his feet to catch him and lower him, gasping, back to the bed.

“Vader—I—”

“I know, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, placating, “I know,” but this did little to calm Anakin’s frenzied thoughts. 

Vader. Sidious. Palpatine. _Vader._ Vader had—Force—

“I killed you,” Anakin blurted, with a jolt that made his vision swim from the pain—pain that, right now, he barely noticed. 

“No,” Obi-Wan said, more firmly this time. His mouth tightened into a thin line. “Things may change.”

“But I did,” Anakin protested, and by this time a healer had noticed he was up and began rushing toward him. He was about to lose his window of opportunity to speak to Obi-Wan—

—and then a thought hit him. He clenched Obi-Wan’s hand. “Who _knows_?” he whispered.

“Just us,” Obi-Wan replied, before the healer reached Anakin’s bed, urging him not to hurt himself and separating the two, for the moment. Before long he was smothered in equipment and healers’ urgent hands, but Anakin’s racing thoughts would not be distracted.

He was relieved. He felt guilty that he felt relieved. He felt guilty that he’d even asked. If he was such a monster, did he have a right to deny the galaxy that information?

Obi-Wan. Jedi. _Younglings._

But there was the matter of Palpatine, too—

Anakin squeezed his eyes shut. No, he couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make any sense…

...did it?

As he drifted off, Anakin welcomed the oblivion once more.

***

The next time Anakin woke up, his surroundings were so similar to the previous time that he could have been forgiven for forgetting his last period of consciousness, for letting things blend together in his memory.

Unfortunately for him, he remembered everything that had occurred quite clearly. So, naturally, Anakin awoke to a strong wave of depression and self-loathing.

He closed his eyes and wished he could fall right back to sleep.

However, Obi-Wan had noticed (since he’d managed to keep himself alert this time). He drew closer to the bed. “Anakin,” he said, voice gentle.

Begrudgingly, Anakin opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Obi-Wan. “Why are you still here?”

Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “I had supposed you would prefer some company.”

 _Well, you thought wrong,_ Anakin almost snapped back—perhaps, just to be contrary—but instead, he sighed and lowered his eyes. “Right.”

Obi-Wan pulled his chair closer and settled into it. For a moment, there was only silence.

“Fates may be changed,” Obi-Wan said presently. “I hope you remember that. We’ve seen proof of it.”

Anakin gave a bitter chuckle that quickly turned into a pained wheeze. “As you keep saying.”

“No, look at me.” Anakin obeyed, startled by Obi-Wan’s adamant tone. “You desired this knowledge before, to _fight back._ Now we know, and we will use it precisely so it never comes to pass.”

Anakin met Obi-Wan’s gaze for a moment, his Master’s intent look almost enough to convince him—but—

Anakin turned his head to stare at the blank ceiling. “Doesn’t change the fact that it _would’ve_ happened.”

Obi-Wan stayed silent.

“Force, if we never—I _would’ve_ been a kriffing _Sith_. I _would’ve_ killed you, and all those people, and—” Anakin shut his eyes. “How can you even stand to look at me if I would have killed _younglings?”_

Sighing, Obi-Wan leaned forward, clasping his hands. How often had he wished Anakin would think things through—but this time, he wished Anakin _hadn’t._ “The Dark Side… changes people. It is easy, under its influence, to do things we never would have dreamed of.”

“Then I never should’ve Fallen,” Anakin retorted. 

“Maybe, but…” Obi-Wan looked at his former apprentice’s tight, pained expression. “We shall never know the circumstances. In the right situation, any one of us could Fall.”

Anakin very much doubted this—like Obi-Wan or Yoda would _ever_ —but said nothing. He stared at the ceiling once more. And like that was any excuse—that anyone could. Would they apply that reasoning to Dooku, and Maul and—

Sidious. Palpatine.

He fidgeted. _No_. Every time he thought about it, something inside him wanted to scream, to rage that it _couldn’t be true._

“How are we sure they’re even right?” he blurted, turning back towards Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan gave him a curious look. “The words, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Anakin replied, gathering momentum. “We’ve been just trusting them, this whole time—and these new ones just showed up, and we’re somehow just supposed to accept it?”

Obi-Wan pursed his lips and looked down. “The thought had crossed my mind before the most recent… incident, but…” He met Anakin’s eyes once more. “You must have been too indisposed to feel it. The appearance of the new words was accompanied by a swell in the Light Side of the Force that, unfortunately, I am inclined to trust.”

Anakin clenched his mechanical fist. But how could Palpatine be _Darth Sidious?_ He had trusted the man, looked up to him, for almost his whole life—but he was supposed to be the _Sith Master,_ and had, would’ve, killed—

Anakin lurched forward, igniting another round of pain that he summarily ignored. “ _Padmé,_ ” he choked. 

“Anakin, what is it?” Obi-Wan’s voice inquired, sounding rather startled, but Anakin tuned him out, fury rising. 

Palpatine would have killed _Padmé._ He was the man destined to destroy his family.

Never mind. Anakin had no qualms about hating him now. He needed to _die,_ a slow and painful death. In fact, he’d love to march straight into the Senate building and choke out the worm-eating _bastard_ —

“ _Anakin,_ ” Obi-Wan’s voice exclaimed, and Anakin whirled around to glare at him—

—before seeing the expression on his face. Surprise and concern were there, yes, but worse was the ever-so-slight undercurrent of fear. Fear—of him.

Vader would’ve enjoyed murdering people out of anger, too.

And, all of a sudden, Anakin’s rage left him.

He collapsed back on the bed, shell-shocked. No wonder he Fell, in the future. Force, he already made a perfect Sith Lord _now._ How had he missed it, for all these years, pretending that he was fine, that it was somehow okay to feel that much hate toward people, to _enjoy_ hurting them—

He truly was a monster.

Presently, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and, glancing over at Obi-Wan, it was only when his form seemed to blur that Anakin noticed the tears leaking out of his eyes. 

The two remained like this for a time, Obi-Wan staying steadfast as Anakin mourned the person he thought he was, and the future that might not be, until he had no tears left to cry. 

***

The Holonet was informed, later that day, that Anakin Skywalker was in stable condition (well, physically, at least)—and that he was expected to make a full recovery.

Padmé, who had only just _barely_ refrained from comming Obi-Wan incessantly to find out the news, felt so relieved she might cry.

Sidious was displeased, but had been expecting this news.

Count Dooku was furious. Was a competent bounty hunter, for _once,_ too much to ask for?

The general public, however, was quite pleased, as far as the idea went that both halves of their favorite Jedi duo were still alive for their entertainment. Beyond this, they soon grew bored of the incident and moved on. 

Rex and Ahsoka had already been updated on the situation through comms with the Jedi Temple, but were, nevertheless, quite relieved to hear it.

This didn’t mean that, as soon as they arrived at the Temple, they didn’t want to see Anakin _immediately._

***

Rex hated to say it, but he’d seen this picture before—his General, laid out on a bed in the med wing with some serious-looking injury or other, waiting impatiently to be released. For all that General Skywalker had a nasty habit of getting himself hurt, he certainly hated the process of getting better, always itching to go right back out and throw himself, once more, into the thick of things.

But, as Rex entered the room where Anakin was staying, he realized that part of the picture was missing. Namely, the impatience part. 

Rex was already quite concerned.

“Rex, Ahsoka,” Anakin greeted them with a weak smile. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Master, are you alright?” Ahsoka said, drawing close to his bedside. 

Anakin averted his eyes. “I’m… fine.”

No sarcasm, nor jokes. Rex frowned. It was worse than he thought.

“Sir, if I may—you don’t look very fine.”

A shadow crossed Anakin’s face, but before he had the chance to respond (if he even would have), General Kenobi entered the room, looking similarly worse-for-the-wear.

 _Something_ worse than the assassination attempt had happened, Rex would bet money on it.

“Ah, there you are,” Obi-Wan addressed the newcomers, with a smile Rex doubted was truly genuine. “Were you able to bring the chip?”

Rex brushed aside the redirection of the conversation—he’d manage to get his answers soon enough—and patted the bag on his back. “Right here, sir.”

“Thanks, both of you,” Anakin said. “The sooner we can get answers off of that thing, the better.”

Rex nodded. He couldn’t agree more.

“We need to begin the decryption attempts at the Temple’s largest servers,” Obi-Wan continued. “Why don’t both of you follow me?”

Ahsoka frowned, evidently recognizing the dismissal for what it was. “Wait—but—”

“I’ll be perfectly fine, Snips,” Anakin reassured her. “I’m not going to heal up right this minute.”

“It had still better be soon, Skyguy,” she pretended to scold, smiling. 

“You bet,” Anakin grinned.

Rex still did not like the look of Anakin’s attempt at his usual cavalier manner.

“Well, shall we?” Obi-Wan extended a hand towards the exit. 

With a last reluctant glance at his General, Rex followed.

***

Count Dooku was rescued from a meeting with Nute Gunray by a call from his Master. Of course, normally Dooku would never call a summoning from Sidious being _rescued,_ but at this juncture, he would rather do _anything_ than be stuck having to listen to the coward’s titterings yet _again._ So, making his excuses, he left the frying pan for the fire.

“Master,” he greeted, kneeling in the expected (yet ever so demeaning) gesture of respect.

“It is time that the galaxy sees the destruction unpunished lawlessness brings,” Sidous proclaimed, voice dripping with contempt. Dooku guessed that he’d been running into obstructions in the Senate. “It is time to launch the attack.”

Dooku swallowed down his annoyance. Skywalker would have to wait.

“Yes, my Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the angst train! *choo choo*


End file.
